The Sharp Part

I was dragging the cedar across the floorboards,

trying to find where the old stuff is stored.

The wood gave a shudder, a dry, biting sound,

and a needle of grain was the thing that I found.

It’s buried in deep, right under the skin,

making it hard for the ink to begin.

The letter is waiting, the page is still blank,

while I’m digging for cedar in a clinical rank.

The tweezers are silver under the light,

grabbing for what’s staying out of my sight.

I’d rather be bleeding than saying I’m sorry,

or finishing up this particular story.